


The Emperor of Nebraska

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Baking, Domestic, Food, Friendship, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes silence is the best policy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emperor of Nebraska

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to my intrepid First Readers -- your collective enthusiasm lifts me up every single time. 1,788 words. Especial thanks to [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/) for the apples.

_**Houseficlet: The Emperor of Nebraska**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/) on 1/8/08.  
 **TITLE:** The Emperor of Nebraska  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House and Wilson.  
 **RATING:** PG-13.  
 **WARNINGS:** None.  
 **SPOILERS:** None.  
 **SUMMARY:** Sometimes silence is the best policy.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** As always, many thanks to my intrepid First Readers -- your collective enthusiasm lifts me up every single time. 1,788 words. Especial thanks to [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/) for the apples.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal** , who said "It's those quiet moments."

  
 **The Emperor of Nebraska**

  
House watches, mesmerized, as Wilson kneads the bread dough.

 _Palmaris longus,_ he thinks. _Flexor carpi ulnaris. Flexor digitorum superficilias. Flexor carpi radialis._ The long muscles of Wilson's forearms stretch and contract as he pushes the heel of his left hand into the dough, folds it over itself, and does it again. _Brachioradialis. Pronator teres. Biceps brachii._

Wilson glances up; there's a white daub of flour on his nose. He studies House for a moment, then huffs out a soft breath and returns his attention to the dough. He's not speaking to House, and House is positive it's because of his remark earlier that the yeast from the silver Red Star packet, blooming in the warm water where Wilson had sprinkled it, sure seemed like a metaphor for cancer cells.

Wilson had gotten this _look_ on his face, and then his nose had wrinkled up (the same nose that now bears that swipe of flour), and then he'd stopped talking.

Sensitive wuss.

Wilson's hands press hard, forcing the tiny yeast-generated gas bubbles out of the dough.

 _Flexor retinaculum. Dorsal interosseous. Abductor pollicis brevis._

Wilson is humming to himself. The kitchen is bright with the light of the midday sun, and there's a cool autumn breeze teasing at the curtains.

The whole scene is so utterly, disgustingly _domestic_ it makes House want to stab himself with the bread knife. Except that wouldn't really work -- the bread knife (by virtue of being a bread knife) doesn't have a pointy tip. Maybe he could serrate himself to death.

Wilson grunts; the dough must be stiffening, its way of announcing it's ready for first rising. At least, that's how Wilson has described it in the past.

House rolls his eyes. To hear Wilson talk about bread-making, you'd think he had a secret telepathic channel to a field of hard durum wheat somewhere in Nebraska, his own prairie empire of winter red. The guy probably jerks off to a picture of Julia Child when House isn't around.

Wilson pours a little olive oil ( _extra-virgin, at $28 a pop,_ House thinks sourly) into a big Pyrex mixing bowl and dumps the rounded ball of dough in. He turns it a couple of times to coat it with the oil, then covers the bowl loosely with a sheet of Saran wrap and sticks the whole thing in the oven that's been gently warming since Wilson had gathered together the first ingredients.

He picks up a faded blue kitchen towel and wipes his hands clean, then arches a sardonic eyebrow at House.

He's still not talking.

* * *

An hour and a half later -- an hour and a half of _silent Wilson_ \-- the dough has doubled in bulk and is now attempting to escape over the smooth bowl-rim.

Wilson peels back the plastic wrap and studies the amorphous dough-mass for a moment. House beats back the almost-irresistable urge to make a remark about tumors, then can't stop the involuntary flinch as Wilson balls his left hand into a fist and punches the dough hard in its metaphorical gut.

The ball of risen dough deflates instantly, sagging back into itself.

 _Believe me, buddy, I know how you feel,_ House thinks sympathetically.

Wordlessly, Wilson turns out the dough onto the floured wooden board. A puff of powdery grain floats up, clouding Wilson's dark blue t-shirt. Some of the particles settle onto the fine hairs of his arms, clinging there like pollen on the legs of bees. The dough is a soft tawny color, the amber of the honey Wilson used to feed the yeast and add a little sweetness. He reaches for the big chef's knife, and in one long stroke, cuts the doughy mass in half.

 _The wisdom of Solomon,_ House thinks, but doesn't say.

Wilson rolls one of the dough halves in the loose flour and begins to knead again. A faint sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead and he swipes at his face with the back of one dusted forearm. House leans back against the counter, vastly pleased with his secret knowledge that Wilson now looks like a horse with a distinct white forelock. He wonders how long he can keep Wilson from looking in a mirror.

Last week the dough had been yellow, the color of the egg yolks and saffron Wilson had used to make _challah_. Last week he had cut the dough into three parts, rolled them out into lengths of golden rope and plaited them together as tenderly as if braiding the long blonde hair of a young girl. He'd made two loaves and given one to Cuddy ( _"Suck-up,"_ House had muttered, disappointed that he didn't get to keep one all to himself). Still, Wilson had made it up to him with enough variations on _challah_ French toast to keep a small _bistro_ busy.

The week before that it had been Irish soda bread, the dark brown crust hard and cracked, and the week before that pumpernickel, and before that --

If House didn't know better, he'd think Wilson was pregnant.

This week the loaves will be whole wheat, with just enough unbleached white flour to guard against bitterness. Raw hulled sunflower seeds freckle the dough in tiny pale dapples.

House doesn't know the exact event that sparked this sudden avocation. What he _does_ know is that Wilson has seemed more relaxed, less fretful about House, work, and life in general. Plus he's feeding House, which is all that really matters.

The fresh Wilson-bread has held platters of roast turkey, holey Swiss cheese, and dripping slices of red ripe tomatoes. House has piled it high with pastrami, sauerkraut, and rough, grainy mustard. Wilson had brought home a quarter peck of bright Michigan apples one afternoon, and sandwiches of apples and sharp cheddar, apples and peanut butter, apples and Gruyere and ham had been a staple part of their Edenic diet for weeks.

The oven door clangs, jolting House back to the present. While he's been lost in reverie, Wilson has finished kneading both sections of dough, formed them into cocoon-like loaves, and nestled them into greased glass pans. They're back in the warm oven, covered with a thin, cotton kitchen towel for their second rising. House watches as Wilson sets the timer for forty minutes and starts to clean up his work space. Wilson's humming to himself again, using a damp sponge to sweep the stray dunes of flour into the sink. His wrist flexes.

 _Triquetrum bone,_ House thinks. _Trapezium, pisiform, lunate._

* * *

Wilson lifts a corner of the kitchen towel and peeks underneath, then whips the thin cloth up and away in a magician's reveal. The bread has risen again, and for a moment House imagines the two loaves growing in the dark, joining forces, expanding until they fill the oven completely in a great square mass of squishy dough. He thinks of the expression on Wilson's face, and starts calculating just how many quarter-ounce packets of yeast it would take to produce such a runaway chemical reaction. Maybe toss in a couple of bottles of warm beer for good measure.

Yeah, he could totally do this baking thing.

As if reading House's thoughts, Wilson shoots him a warning look as he raises the oven temperature.

House snorts. Two can play at this game, and he doesn't even need an autographed copy of _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ for reinforcement.

* * *

The apartment is redolent with the aroma of freshly baked bread. House taps his cane impatiently from his position on the sofa; he can hear Wilson puttering around in the kitchen, rattling plates and clattering silverware.

He'd tried everything -- _Yankee Workshop_ had been on, and for one delirious moment he had thought Norm Abram actually _was_ going to slice a finger off this time, so he'd jacked the sound up loud in order to catch the jump in the buzzsaw. It hadn't happened, though, and, disappointed, he had switched to a repeat of a monster truck rally he'd TiVo'd a couple of weeks ago.

Wilson had ignored it all, continuing to leaf through his new issue of _Blood_ , perusing the pages with a look of tightly focused concentration.

 _I hate you,_ House had thought, silently willing Wilson to look up and see the evidence in his eyes.

Wilson had calmly turned another page. Maybe he was reading about the new screening techniques for leukemia- and clone-specific markers at birth in children with T-cell precursor ALL, suggesting a predominantly postnatal origin.

House couldn't tell. He'd only scanned that article.

 _It's time for dinner,_ House thinks. _Dinner, dinner, dinner._ And he knows _what's_ for dinner -- there's a thick center-cut leg of lamb steak in the fridge. It's been marinating half the day in a mix of olive oil, red wine, garlic, oregano, and God knows what else that Wilson's seen fit to throw in there. Julia Child's earrings, maybe.

 _ **Dinner,**_ he thinks again, directing a narrow beam of channeled energy at Wilson's back as he continues to putter in the kitchen. It doesn't seem to do a damn bit of good, and House settles back again, reluctantly.

And that's the way he's sitting when Wilson's hand touches the back of his neck, ever so briefly -- a feather-light brush. A small plate appears as if by magic in front of his nose.

It holds a perfectly-browned slice of toast, slathered with fresh farm butter and orange marmalade. The tiny half-curls of orange peel stick up from the jellied surface like miniature brambles. House grabs hold of the plate instinctively before it falls into his lap.

From the kitchen come the sounds of more cookery -- the metallic rip of aluminum foil being torn from the roll, the slap of meat laid on the broiling grill and the quick, rising sizzle. Wilson is whistling; House can't quite make out the tune.

He takes a bite of the toast just as the rich scent of the lamb reaches his nostrils. At first the faintly bitter orange clashes with the meat, then merges into an aroma at once old and familiar.

Morocco, and the heady, spicy smell of lamb _tagine_. House had been thirteen, a tall, gangly boy on stork legs, at home there as much as anywhere else, which was to say nowhere.

The whistling continues, and House chews slowly, cataloging every flavor from the fresh-baked bread, transformed twice by fire into something much more than yeast and flour, water and honey. He imagines a wheatfield, entire in his hand, acres of grain stretching to the horizon. When it's all gone he looks down at his fingers, the tips shiny from the butter and the faint remnants of the greased pans.

A corkscrew squeaks, and there's a faint _pop!_ from the kitchen. House waggles his fingers before his eyes and smiles.

 _Maybe some things,_ he thinks, _just don't need words._

And he stands up, leans on his cane for only a moment, and makes his slow way into the kitchen and the bright, welcoming light.

  
~ the end.

  
 _"I am going to learn to make bread to-morrow. So you may imagine me with my sleeves rolled up, mixing flour, milk, saleratus, etc., with a deal of grace."_  
~ Emily Dickinson. American poet, 1830 - 1886

  



End file.
